


Cold Heart

by Hambone



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Anal, Canonical Character Death, Drugged Sex, Forced Orgasm, Hurt No Comfort, Mental Anguish, Nonbinary Character, Other, Paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28440036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: Anri awakens in the mausoleum, but Horace is there to comfort them. Or at least, it seems that way.Male Anri.
Relationships: Anri of Astora/Ashen One, Anri of Astora/Horace the Hushed
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Cold Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this waaaaay back when I first was playing DS3, then left off for a few years. Now I've finished it because I'm on a Horace/Anri kick and I hope to do more with them soon. Dark Lord ending best ending. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It was so cold. Anri wasn’t sure if that was the state of the room itself, or their own body, frozen by poison. It hurt to be so still, when every part of them strained to move, as though some heavy weight pressed them down, infinitely strong. Already they had gone through several stages of hysteria, without the response of their body to release it, for even that ability had been stripped from them, and now all there was within them was a hollow and silent screaming. There had been another weight like this, black and cold, passing over them when they were young and weak, nearly suffocating as he decided who to pick, who was most tender, most ripe. With their only light the sliver of stained glass visible through their helm, Anri felt that same desire to simply drown again.

They couldn’t see their attacker’s face, but the woman had told them to rejoice. That was what the priests would say, too, when they were young and a prisoner. Aldrich would weigh his meat sometimes, when he was feeling playful, and the devout would take Anri’s wrist in their tight bony fingers and drag them to his chambers while telling them to be joyous and free of heart, for there was a chance that today it could be them. The stink of rot would choke them and they’d cry and cry and then Aldrich’s melting arms would lift them up and he would laugh. His flesh surged over them and they’d be lost, just as they were now, in blackness, in perpetual stillness, everything around them so heavy. When suffocation began to free them from their horror they’d be plucked from the mire, sent back, because they had always been small and Aldrich’s gluttony was more powerful than his love for their shrill screaming.

Footsteps approached with a cadence Anri recognized but could not place. They were far away at first, slow but echoing, and through their gasping sobs Anri felt as if it were the bottom of the sea they lay at, the sound engulfing everything. They reached out, upwards, not with their hands but with their heart, begging.

A familiar face bowed into their field of vision, and they could have wept.

_Horace, Horace!_

They could not speak but their soul sang, because while everything sank around them those two dark eyes lifted them away from the depths. The dark metal of the executioner’s costume was as warm and welcoming as an embrace, and they wanted to lean into him, but could not, still restrained to their mind. Horace cupped their helm and Anri felt breath hiccup in their chest, relief sucking them back into the real world, the world where they were not alone.

Horace knelt next to them, sliding his hands down to their shoulders. His bulky gauntlets rang noisily against their plate while he prodded curiously, searching for injuries perhaps. Anri would have gone limp even without the poison in their veins, because Horace would never harm them, and they were safe now. The fever of their delirium cleared, but the fog did not, simply taking on a rosy tinge as they gazed at the black holes of Horace’s helm. His hands patted down Anri’s sides, finding nothing. They couldn’t remember if they had anything on them to begin with, or if their packs had been looted. If he knew, Horace did not indicate so, instead circling their hips briefly before again feeling up to their chest, where he paused. Perhaps he was feeling for a pulse, their slow and steady breaths, something to indicate whether or not they were in dire condition despite their pristine appearance. They did not think on it much, basking in the comfort his touch brought. Even when he curiously cupped beneath their chest, they did not question it, content to allow Horace to squeeze the meager muscle there if he needed.

In fact, now that Horace was here, their mind began to darken again. They knew, in some tiny, frightened part of their mind, that they should not relax just yet, that wherever they were was not safe, that Horace may need their assistance, but his light pawing was so soothing, and they were so, so tired. Unconsciousness wrapped its arms around them, holding them close, and they wanted dearly to return the embrace.

They were stirred back into awareness when Horace’s hands lifted the skirt of their maille. Unsure how long they’d drifted, Anri did not immediately understand what was going on. It should have been fairly apparent by this point they were unharmed. Unless they weren't. They realized, with a calm detachment, that they were unsure if they could even feel themself below the neck. There was only pressure, the same heavy weight they had first awoken to. Everything else was cold, though they had indeed felt Horace shifting their clothing, because they could not see him at all now. It was still him though – they could hear the same deep, hard breathing. It might have been odd, had they the mind for it, because Horace was no longer rushing to their side, but still he sounded near breathless, as though he had just finished some strenuous activity. Anri hoped that he himself was not injured.

As they were attempting to mull this over, a strange sensation began to bloom under their stomach, warm and sickly. Pressure solidified like a hand on their hip, their groin, smoothing up to just below their navel. Then another weight pressed upon their thigh and Anri realized it was Horace. He was looking for something beneath their tunic, so close to their skin that they could feel the lifeless chill of his gauntlets. They could not recoil from it. The vaulted ceiling yawned above them, offering no answers. Leaning upon them heavily, Horace found their belt, the one that held their trousers, and yanked on it. It was a crude motion, one Anri was unfamiliar with, and again the notion that Horace needed something they could not move to offer sprang to mind. He did not vocalize or gesture to them, maybe not knowing they had woken at all, and while this was not unusual the fear began to creep back into Anri’s skin.

After a moment of fiddling, Horace’s hand left their leg. They heard more metallic scraping, more hurried panting. Take what you need, Anri thought. Please. Horace pressed down and then, with a bit of a snap, their belt came apart. It was not by the buckle, though Anri could not see what had occurred. In some way they could not fathom, Horace was helping them, like he always did. They were safe with Horace.

Horace pulled their pants down. It was not an easy process. Because of their limpness he had to shuffle the cloth slowly around their skinny hips, lifting their ass as he squat above them. Anri felt the buttons on their trousers catch their skin painfully several times, unable to defend against it, desperately trying to understand. They were an intimate couple, and being exposed to him brought them no shame, but Anri was lost, floating here without meaning. When the garment was down to their knees, Horace stopped, stilling briefly, looking at them. Anri begged Horace to come back into their field of vision, but the silence stretched on.

When Horace touched them again, there was no mistaking his intent. His hands, still covered by the heavy gauntlets, lifted the flaccid length of Anri’s prick, as if inspecting it. Anri’s heart was beating disturbingly slowly for how frightened they were. Without an outlet for their panic, it built inside them like bile, like they might drown themself if they didn't somehow rid themselves of the poison, but they remained slack and motionless. Horace must have had a meaning behind his actions, but left unsaid Anri only had the horrifying mystery left to contend with. Horace cautiously wrapped a hand around the length of their cock and stroked it, his other hand tickling low to cup their balls and brush their perineum, all things that would have been more than welcome any other time.

To compound their misfortune, their body was well acquainted with Horace’s hands, and within minutes blood had begun to travel south, responding eagerly to the awkward ministrations. A clammy sweat gathered on their skin, under their clothes, intensifying the sensation of wetness, of Aldrich’s cruel fingers. The moment the revelation hit them they shut it out immediately, unable to let their mind linger on him, because if they fell back into that now they would surely die here. Horace was trying to help them. Heat was growing where he touched, juxtaposed harshly with the chill that nipped their fingers and toes. They were not sure if their extremities were indeed becoming colder as their blood evacuated down to their groin or if the slow stiffening of their prick was simply overpowering their ability to see the situation as it was.

After a while of this, Horace stopped. Anri wanted to believe that he was done, but they could hear him shifting hurriedly, and then bare flesh returned to them. He’d removed his gauntlets, exposing skin so rugged and hungry that they would have writhed for him if able. It felt so different, unable to move or respond, so much more powerful, and this too frightened them. Deprived of any way to express their needs, the sense of being gripped firmly in Horace’s rough hand had their blood pulsing through them in waves so hot it made them dizzy, and they could feel their cock swelling, eager even if no other part of them was. Truly, they could never deny Horace, even in such a state.

Pleased by their strong reaction, Horace pumped them vigorously, slicking down the friction between their skins with precum and spittle and something more, but Anri was blind to it. Their vision was swimming again, between whatever had been done to them and the southward rush of their blood leaving their brain gasping. With their eyes open, the ceiling swirled like a gray sea yawning above, but to close them and be engulfed in blackness only made the memories rise up again. Only Horace’s hand, steadily frigging them faster and harder, kept them above the choppy waves. Their cock throbbed.

They were shocked by the feeling of a finger pushing between their buttocks to nudge their hole. The same urgency that seemed to have consumed Horace again led him to act uncharacteristically bold, screwing the tip in before Anri could even fully register what was happening. To be rubbed off here was one thing, but now, to have such an intimate thing done, in such an unholy place, was far more than Anri’s heart could bear. They wanted to crawl away, unused to the burn of such rough penetration. Horace had always been so careful before, so slow and methodical, even when they had pushed into his hand and begged for him to cast off his worries. The finger he used to pry them apart now was dry, and it scraped against his delicate insides in a way that could only bring pain, if not very great pain. His hand working their cock slowed as well, distracted in some way, the dueling sensations losing balance within them. As he pushed in to the knuckle, Anri wondered how he could not hear their heartbeat screaming.

As with their cock, whatever spell or venom paralyzed them did not at all numb the sensations in their ass. While Horace’s movements did hurt, Anri was also so accustomed to desiring his touch that their muscles loosened easily, the heat from their cock spreading to everywhere he poked and prodded. Horace fingered them out oddly, as if he had forgotten their body entirely, his touch almost clumsy as he caressed their insides, bumping their prostate every now and then with such a lack of finesse that Anri was more disturbed by the sensation than pleasured. Still, they warmed beneath him, chasing away some of the cold fear’s bite. It was passing strange, to be so torn between their confusion and fear and the deep, unconditional love for Horace that had Anri wishing they could reach up and curl into his embrace, accept his needs openly.

Why had Horace vanished so suddenly in the Catacombs? They had been so close, in the darkness of those tunnels, only the dry heat of the place keeping Anri from being dragged back into memories of their youth, still so freshly wounded by their visit to the Cathedral, the scent of death stuck to them like so many black flies, and Horace had not left their side, not once, not for years and years, but as they had come from one shadowed hole to another they had realized they were suddenly, inexplicably alone. Perhaps they had taken his presence for granted, all this time, for they had been so baffled by his disappearance that for a long moment Anri hadn’t believed it. They’d almost laughed, thinking he was just around the corner, behind the last door, surely, hiding from them for some unknown reason, until they realized they’d been retracing their steps for over and hour and Horace was, truly, gone. They’d had to press forward, reminded of their journey by a brief conversation with that other ashen Undead, who himself was on a path of great importance, but it was as though knives tore at their feet with every step, anxiety and guilt hot on their heels.

But Horace was not angry with them. He’d found them, he’d saved them from drowning here, wanted them still. He’d pulled out, briefly, fiddling with something at his belt. Anri wished they could lift their head, even minutely, see what he was doing. They didn't even know where they were, still, the high ceilings and dim lighting offering no clues. It was almost a warm light, like the sun, and the thought struck them that they had been unconscious for many hours, and awake but frozen many more still. It had been night, when they’d come to Irithyll, and dark it had remained all the while they were there, up until the moment they were shocked into sleep by the sting in their neck. Were they even in Irithyll, any more? Anri was desperate to understand something at the moment, anything, but their thoughts were interrupted when something far larger than fingers pressed against their backside.

It didn't matter if Anri could see or not; they knew the feeling of a hot cock prodding them immediately. Another hard shot of terror pierced their heart. Surely, Horace could not be planning to penetrate them so soon, when their hole had barely been touched? His dick was thick as it was solid, and Anri had no illusions about just how horrific such a thing could be. He did not press on, however, rubbing the cleft of their buttocks, then nudging up against their balls. Immense relief melted across Anri as Horace’s cock came to rest against their own, which had flagged slightly from the total dissonance between the touches and their thoughts. Not wholly committed to it, Horace frotted against them for a moment, and Anri was able to enjoy the slide of their skins together, strange as it was. Nothing about the situation was right, not at all, but something in the feeling of Horace’s prick against their own seemed off as well, some small but important change they could not pinpoint. They tried to banish it, the moment it surfaced inside them, but their mind, with nothing to do but search, could not drop the questions.

Horace’s cock was large and heavy, which was still an accurate way to describe how he felt now, but there was something in the pattern of veins he could feel, the slight curve to the left that had never been there before. Unable to trust their own senses, Anri struggled to push them down, but there was a persistent aura of wrongness as Horace’s fingers, now wetted, returned to their hole, wriggling inside two at once. His preparations were hurried, twisting and turning inside them painfully, only barely managing to prod the right spots to keep them somewhat hard during all of it. They tried to bear it for him, not that they had a choice, putting their heart into the memory of when this had felt right and their cock had been hard because they wanted it to be. Horace was making strange noises, muffled by his helmet, weird panting grunts that didn't sound at all like him. He couldn't be hollow, though the thought did begin to prickle in the back of Anri’s throat like poison. His movements were too precise, too calm. Hollows fucked like animals.

With their muscles so lax, they could not clench down when Horace pulled them apart enough to see their insides, scissoring open his fingers almost cruelly. Horace had been between their legs before, kissing their thighs, places they were ashamed to even look at on their own body but he had lavished with affection. He had no tongue but he could still create suction, wonderfully, and he had seen them undone at their most intimates, but now Anri wanted to close themself off and it frightened them. For the first time in their life, Horace’s comforting figure now appeared hulking and dark, the round edges almost melting into sludge in their distorted vision.

Their ass made a lewd sucking noise when Horace pulled his fingers out, something they could not help. Horace sat back, gripping his dick and guiding it to bump crudely against their hole, reddened and open enough to snag the head with each pass. The snakes in Anri’s stomach squirmed, but their body thrummed with a low heat, wanting for its mate. Their heart trembled. They were numb and simultaneously alight with burning sensation, aching to cling to Horace, to hide away in his broad chest as they always had before, for him to hold them, but he didn’t. Instead, he pushed his cock in, slowly, spreading them wide around his girth with a throaty chuckle that belonged to someone Anri did not quite know, and in a voice Horace had never possessed, said,

“Yeah, that’s right.”

For a moment, Anri’s body went completely still and cold inside, like death. No breath pulled, no blood pumped, every hair left upon their hollowing skin upright. The man who was not Horace seated himself to the root inside them, sighing with deep satisfaction, and gripped their hips to his own with hands that wore Horace’s gloves. His cock was twitching inside them, they could feel it, and all at once the sensation became that of a hot rod of iron stabbed into them, his fingers cold knives, and Anri’s mind screamed and screamed again.

It wasn’t Horace. It was that man, whom they had encountered on the road, unassuming and quiet, but that voice was the same. He had come here, in Horace’s clothes, to this place of evil, and forced himself upon them, unable to respond. At once, everything inside them came alive again, their heart punching painfully against their rib cage. They were going to be sick, wanted to be, but they had nothing inside them to be sick with. The man, unaware of the world he was shattering, began to draw his dick back out, and Anri could feel how their ass clung to him, tight and soft and wet, and they were aghast, repulsed. It was wrong, everything was wrong, and now they could feel the shape of him and how different it was.

Uncaring for their comfort, the man fucked into them hard, slapping skin to Undead skin, and Anri’s gut lurched with hateful pleasure. Their body seemed to float above the altar, the impostor crashing upon them in harsh waves. The relaxed state of their body made thrusting easy, the man fucking into them to no resistance, grunting his satisfaction with each deep push. No matter how they strained to fight back, Anri could not make it hurt any more for themself as for their assailant, subdued by the heat stirring in their gut. Their eyes could hardly stay open, gummed together by what they realized where yellowed, ichorous tears, the first they had shed in longer than their mind could recall. Hollowing had stolen such things from them, over time, the natural human reactions that had once been so common within their daily life as to be unnoticeable, unremarkable. Now, they were horrified by them, almost unable to comprehend their body’s response to the pain that rushed about in their skull like a bell’s clapper.

Where was Horace, if not here? The man wrenched their hips up into his lap, really pounding into them now, voice sounding distant from inside Horace’s mouthless helm. His fingers dug cruelly into Anri’s hips, bruising them, squeezing hungry handfuls of their buttocks apart to get his cock in deeper and deeper, dragging out the sloppy sounds between them til they chewed at Anri’s ears like the tide of Aldrich’s mirth. Their cock, pitifully hard still, bounced in time with every thrust, thin strands of precum spattering between them. Their head was pounding, but their heart was also in the fork of their legs throbbing along to the beat of the impostor's cock as it forced them apart, bullying against their sensitive spots, well practiced with Horace’s affection, against their inflamed prostate. Their throat felt tight but they kept breathing anyways, wishing they weren't. It shouldn't have been this easy, the pleasure inside them, but their body welcomed the monster inside it, hot and light.

“He really trained you, didn’t he?”

Anri felt cold enough to burn. They wished he would stop talking, reminding them that he was a stranger. He’d been so quiet, before. Did he know they were awake, aware of every wicked thing he did to them, or was he simply too far gone to contain himself?

“You’re sucking me in like a whore. You hear that? How sloppy your hole is?”

To emphasize his point, the man dragged out with a sudden slow intensity, so that Anri could feel every ridge upon his cock grind their insides, and with it came an obscene wet slurp. They could feel their hole bowing out around the thick head of the stranger’s prick, even relaxed as they were, forced open wide as he remained there a moment, observing himself. They struggled inside their mind, twisting and turning against the poison that had frozen them, but to no avail, and when the impostor thrust back in they were equally helpless as another hard wave of pleasure beat them down. Though they were forcibly relaxed, the growing arousal wound their muscles tighter, their belly taut and quivering, their prick twitching with increasing need.

The impostor was so hot everywhere he touched. Undead were cold, always, blood sluggish in their veins, but this one burned, more so with every moment he panted above them. Ashen, they both were, always searching for warmth, but he was more than warm – he was aflame. The implication was too much to bear.

Why him? Why this creature who wore the kit of their beloved like animal skin?

Anri’s heart clenched like a fist in their breast. Tears puddled in the bowl of their helmet, streaking down the sides of their face, catching on the pitted scars of Hollowing that ate away their face. Let the dark sign take the burden of humanity away, forever. Losing everything now would be less painful.

The man hunched over then and loomed once again into Anri’s field of vision. Horace’s helmet resembled a skull in shadow, the yawning blackness of its eye holes suddenly sparking, just barely, with the whites of a man’s eye. Anri hated him. They hated him so intensely that it hurt, that the pounding inside them, stirring their bowels like a hot poker, could almost be ignored.

But it couldn't be ignored; their lax hole stretched wide around him was aching in a way that sent thrills twirling in their stomach, his thrusts quick and harsh. He’d manhandled them into a posture both undignified and unguarded, so that every forceful fuck brought them as close as physically possible, his fat balls slapping their ass. All the turmoil in their world could not restrain the orgasm building inside them, their cock painfully hard where it bobbed ignored. They didn't want to cum, not like this, but another woefully well placed grind across their prostate punished the very idea of resistance. The enkindled ash was muttering to himself, glimmering with ember, evil things Anri could not understand. By the Lords, what had he done with Horace?

The man’s bare hand grasped their cock again, suddenly, and Anri’s mind was shocked black for a full second, the sensation so powerful they could not handle it. Then, their body shuddered, a full and wild thing, and as the man roughly tugged at their dick they came in long, thin spurts across their own chest. They wished it hurt, but the pleasure was so unrelenting that their thoughts fragmented, all the questions and fears they drowned in hammered down under the blunt force of the impostor's cock. He frigged them til their balls could wring no more jism loose, til they felt raw and overdone, and even then he would not loose them until he was certain they had nothing more to give.

Not once did his motions falter. Anri reeled, exhausted, empty, stimulated beyond the point of being able to cope. Their limbs had fallen all awry, shaken out of place by the ashen one’s persistent pumping. The moment he released their cock, he came, humping away at them as sudden, burning seed poured into their bowels. They weren't ready for it, not so soon after their own orgasm, and another phantom shudder took hold of them. The man was shifting above them, still fucking as he shot them full of jizz, but Anri could barely see now, too clouded with smoke and tears.

The enkindled ash pulled out and they could not close themself, cum spurting out of their hole in shamelessly loud squirts. At the same time, the man reared before them, something else in his hands, gleaming silver in the warm light. The last thing they heard as the blade slid through the bone of their skull and cleaved their brain in half was the voice of a little boy, holding their hand as they saw the sun for the first time, a smile on his face. Anri died alone.

  
  



End file.
